


Carrot Soup

by Dendritic_Trees



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Constructive Criticism Welcome, Food, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:44:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dendritic_Trees/pseuds/Dendritic_Trees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos isn't feeling well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carrot Soup

The thing about Night Vale is that it might be an Orwellian Police State filled with incomprehensible horrors, but it is still an American small town. Although American small towns, in Carlos’ experience, were fairly Orwellian. At least in Night Vale everyone acknowledged that your every move was being monitored by shadowy figures with dubious intent.

Carlos woke up on Tuesday with a stuffy nose and a headache but, as a strong and self-sufficient scientist he went to the lab anyway. On Wednesday he woke up feeling rather like the inhabitants of the underground city had invaded his upper respiratory tract, deduced that he had the flu and went back to bed. He thought about calling Cecil, but ultimately decided that he just couldn’t face having the details of his life broadcast on the radio when he felt so ill. It was alright, he was a clever and self-sufficient scientist and he could cope with a little case of the flu, right?

Around 1:00 there was a sharp knock at the door. It was exceptionally piercing. Carlos shuffled to the door, well aware that his hair was a long way from perfect. He peered around the door to see not Cecil, but two strangers wearing the leather balaclava of the sheriff’s secret police. “Can you re-educate me tomorrow?” he mumbled.

“Scientist Carlos.” The taller policeman said. “Our operatives have indicated that you are unwell. We brought you this soup which our records indicate is your favourite.” Then they left.

Carlos tried to convince himself that they just seemed to vanish from the side walk because he had a fever. That must be it. 

It was his favourite soup. They’d even included nutmeg the way he liked. “Thank you”, he enunciated clearly into his potted cactus on his way back to bed. Maybe Orwellian police states weren’t so bad after all. No one in his old town had ever brought him soup.


End file.
